


i, pet

by Kim Gasper (mickeym)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-04-02
Updated: 1999-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/Kim%20Gasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you need something different to lose yourself in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i, pet

Outside, in the 'real world', things are hectic, wild, chaotic. Phones ring, timers beep, and there is a never-ending flurry of activity, of industry. I have a life there; a name, a profession, friends and loved ones who care about me, who love me. I have activities I enjoy indulging in, and things I must do, enjoyment not being a factor. Outside, there is the Game. Outside, I have a lover; a man I've pledged to, a man I love beyond life itself.

Inside, in here, there is nothing but he and I, and a game of an entirely different sort.

It's a different kind of world; often nearly silent, but for the hoarse cries and muted groans of pleasure--and of pain. Dim and quiet, it's a world full of the power of seduction, and the seduction of power. In here, the only boundaries are the ones we find for ourselves--no one sets them artificially for us.

Out there, he is Methos.

Out there, I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.

In here, He is Sir.

In here, i am pet.

#####

The smell of candle wax is especially strong tonight; it's a thick, strangely cloying scent, reminiscent of heat and fire, with an odd hint of sweetness--perhaps from the honeycombs. Our candles--for this--are old-fashioned, made from beeswax.

A long, hot kiss, tongues tangled and mating, leaves us both breathless, panting into the other's mouth. Tonight…is a hot night. Body temperatures, lust, need; all are high, hot, all requiring fulfillment. We've dressed for this, affecting the proper clothing for the mood we're both in. His long, lean body is hugged and cupped by black leather, the curve of his cheeks peeking out from the high cut of the shorts. Narrow bands of black crisscross his chest, highlighting and accentuating the long muscles there and in his arms. Not bulky, or largely-muscled, my Sir, but lean, with sharp angles--everywhere--that redefine 'hungry'. Wristbands--silver studs on black leather--decorate his forearms, and thick, black boots complete his outfit, adding to the atmosphere. In here, as Sir, is the only time he wears them. They lend an aura to him; one of power, of intensity, that he doesn't lack at any other time, but that seems understated, for the most part. Until we're in here.

I'm wearing leather as well, at his behest, and the tightness, the heat of it seems to trap my own heat inside. I'm sweating, lightly, though I know it'll be profuse before long. Long pants, designed to hold me in, keep my dick properly trapped, waiting for *His* pleasure. My hair is clasped back, but it'll be loose before long; I know from many times past that he can't leave it be--his own trip into bondage, of a sorts.

Sir draws back from me, his lips gleaming wetly in the candlelight. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the echo of its beat spreading all through me. His eyes are dark now; the light hazel color slipping into something darker, thicker, like the raw honey that's taken from a beehive. He raises one finger to stroke lightly over my left nipple, and a smile curves his lips when I shiver.

"Do you want this?" Even his voice is warm, knowing, and I nod, finding it suddenly difficult to catch my breath.

"You know I do, Sir."

"Do you need this?" Four small words, yet they send shards of fire and ice through me. The implications within them is staggering. I nod again not trusting my voice at first, hearing the huskiness when I'm able to speak.

"I--yes, Sir."

That answer isn't enough; it never is, for this part of the ritual. I try, and can't, and he has to make me. My body jerks hard when he pulls on the tail my hair is caught in; I hadn't realized he'd embedded his fingers there.

"Say, it, pet. You know you need to; we can't begin until you tell me."

The words stick in my throat. It's one thing to take pain in battle; warriors are taught to withstand it, as are soldiers, and I've been both. It's something else to recognize the need within yourself for pain applied on purpose--with purpose. I recognize that need… most of the time. It's still hard for me though; hard for me to accept. My cheeks burn, and I drop my eyes, sudden tears of anger and confusion stinging them. My head snaps back again with a well-calculated yank, and I wince.

"Say it. We go no further 'til you do."

He'll wait. He's the epitome of patience, this man who was millennia old before I was born. But making him wait comes with a price, a price that is usually costly to pay. I suck in a long, deep breath, and clear my throat. As hard as it is sometimes to say it, the first rush of freedom comes with the words.

"I--need this, Sir."

"Good pet," he whispers, stroking his fingers over my cheek, then my lips. I purse them, kissing gently, flicking my tongue over them. He plays with my mouth, teasing me with an ease that I envy sometimes. One long finger slides inside, and his mouth is at my ear, whispering again. "Perhaps I'll fuck your pretty mouth first, my pet, just like I fuck your pretty ass." A hard nip at my ear, and the goosebumps that rose up with his words turn to an all-body shiver at the images he rouses. "But that's not all I'll do, is it, Duncan." His finger slides over my tongue, tickling at it, making me long to suck. "You want to hurt. You want me to show you again how close pleasure and pain are--and how well they go together."

His finger is gone now, nothing left of it but the lingering taste of him against my tongue. I nod, shakily. "Sir, I--"

"Did I say you could speak?" The fingers that had been playing with my nipple snap together suddenly, catching tender flesh between them. I flinch, my teeth biting into my lower lip, then shake my head. I'd offer an apology, but he's not asked for one. I'm torn between wanting to make amends and knowing I need to just be still. His fingers tease over the throbbing bud, playing with me. "I thought not." His voice is almost conversational, but beneath that veneer I can hear his power throbbing, like a living thing.

Maybe it is. I trust him enough to give it a life, to bring it here, where it surrounds me, and envelops me. Where it frees me. The power he has, and that I give him over me…is Him.

"You need to apologize, pet. I don't care overmuch for bad manners, y'know." His fingers have tightened almost unbearably on one hard bud, pulling it tautly away from my body. The longer I wait, the harder he pulls. When I think my flesh can't stretch any further, he pulls just a bit more, then lets go. I gulp in a breath, my cheeks hot again.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I spoke out of turn--"

He chucks me under the chin. "Apologize properly, pet. You know how to do it."

The burning in my face becomes a flash of heat that scalds me in embarrassment and humiliation. I can't--do that. I can't. My dick throbs harder, in time with the pulse pounding through me. "I--can't." My whisper sounds loud in the otherwise silent room.

"I think you can."

"Please, Sir--" Arousal and humiliation rage inside me for control, and it's anyone's guess as to which will win.

"Do it, Duncan." There's ice dripping into his voice now, and it sends shivers racing through me. His eyes are--harder, dark and unfathomable, and the sound of my name, on his lips, like that makes me shudder. I hold his eyes with mine; a breach that he'll allow, because he likes spirit. My spirit. A small smile chases over his face, and his voice throbs around me. "Do it…because you need to, and because…you want to."

I hit the floor with my knees, the thud resounding through me like an explosion; like the explosion of my cock, strangling in my pants. For what is only the first time this evening, I'm glad I have a cockring on.

From my knees, I look up in supplication, one last, pleading look. I don't want to do this--I have never wanted to do this. And yet…I get such a jolt, such an electrified feeling from it, that he makes me do it, time and again.

"Do it, Pet," he commands quietly. His face is stern, but not closed off. If I ever thought he shut himself off from me during this, I'd stop in a heartbeat. No matter how much I…need…it, I couldn't do it alone. And he's never asked me to. Trust. It's all tied up in trust.

I hear the soft whimper from deep in my throat. Submission isn't an easy thing for me under the best of circumstances, and we're here tonight because of a series of things that have pushed me beyond my ability to cope well. No matter how much I might want it, or how badly, it's a difficult thing--perhaps moreso even than admitting I need him to hurt me, on occasion.

His fingers are stroking my scalp, massaging the tightness there. They fold inward, pulling my hair, and I look up again, tears blurring my vision. Tears of anger, of humiliation, of need. Tears for him, because that's all I can offer right now. The rest will come later.

"Don't make me say it again, Pet. You know what you need to do. I suggest you attend to it."

There's a definite undertone to his voice now; not quite a chill, but a far cry from the throbbing heat of earlier. The price of delay flashes through me, and I shiver, my knees feeling weak. Obedience isn't without its own price, but it doesn't seem as costly. I don't think. I flick my eyes downward and freeze in place again at the sight of leather gleaming darkly. The rolling in my pit of my belly intensifies, and the heat inside me climbs higher. There's a seductive pull to this; I don't want to do this, and yet, I know I will--one way or another. And knowing I will--is what I need.

I shift slowly, my breathing hard and fast. I can't catch my breath; all the oxygen is gone, scattered to someplace far away. The lower I go, the closer the leather--his boots, the tighter my chest gets, and the harder I throb everywhere. Beckoning, repulsing, needed, despised. He's right, I need this. I don't want to need it; I don't like needing it. But I--do. And I want…to show him. To give him my thanks, my apologies; to show him what he means to me, that he can bring me here, and release those needs in me. My skin itches; the palms of my hands are cold from where they settle on the floor, and my eyes sting so fiercely. But that's all wiped away the instant my nose scents the musty smell of leather; the instant my tongue touches it.

The groan that rises around us is mine, I realize; my groan of apology, of desire, of reverence. My groan of submission.

My tears aren't many, but they fall, mixing with saliva, adding a coating of their own. I clean them away with my tongue, nuzzling his ankle, his calf, tasting his skin before lowering myself again to the boot top. Freedom is the rush of knowing I have to do something I don't want to do; it's also the erotic, musky taste of leather in my mouth.

I lose myself there for a time, licking mindlessly, slurping gently at the rounded toe, rubbing and nuzzling. Worshipping. Giving him the respect due to him, in this place.

My orgasm takes me by surprise, like it always does, driving my head back with a high, keening cry as the force of it rips through me, leaving me shaking and quivering, panting with barely-assuaged hunger.

######

He doesn't leave me there for long; when I shift awkwardly he bends to help me sit up, his fingers stroking my hair, touching my lips, my mouth, and my neck. I hear a quiet rumble from him, and one of my own answers it; almost a purring between us, like big cats resting.

"Did you spill?" His hand is holding my head back, making me look into his eyes. I see a hunger burning there; a hunger for many things I don't understand. I shake my head slowly, and a hot smile curves his mouth. "Good. Anything from you is for me alone. It's good you remembered--and took precautions."

It would be foolish to forget, as I learned the one time I did. I can still feel the bite of the lash cutting into me. Sir is not unkind, and the rules aren't many, but he expects absolute obedience of them. I see in his eyes that he's pleased I've remembered this, and I'm pleased as well, at having made him happy.

Sir helps me stand on legs that still feel too shaky to fully support me, then holds me close for a moment, his long, lean fingers caressing my back as I shudder over and over again. I don't understand what he's saying under his breath; it's likely a language that disappeared before I existed. I understand the tone, though, and more shivers run through me at the soothing, lulling sounds.

My eyes still hurt a little, and my cheeks are damp, the tears and spit from earlier smeared there. I tilt my head back and catch his eye, waiting for his nod of acknowledgment.

"Thank you--Sir. For letting m--this pet apologize."

He inclines his head slowly, almost regally, and I wonder if he's ever been worshipped as a king, or a deity.

"Do you need anything before we start?" His question startles me out of the introspection I've fallen into. We're very quiet, usually, during our play of this sort, and tonight is no different. "You may have a drink of water at any point, if you need one, but this is your last chance to use the facilities until we're finished." He strokes my hair gently, his fingers playing with the clasp holding it back. His voice is soft, almost dreamy. "If you have to go later, you'll do it wherever you're at. There'll be no stopping until we're finished."

I shake my head. "I don't need to do anything, Sir. I would like a drink, if I may."

He nods and releases me; I can feel his eyes burning on me while I cross the room. There's a small refrigerator there, expressly for holding bottled water, for ice that is sometimes used, for any number of things. I drink part of a bottle greedily, then bring the rest to him, sinking to my knees to offer it.

"Thank you, my pet. Seems your manners always improve after an apology, but perhaps there's room for improvement yet, eh? Stand up." He tugs me up; his touch isn't as gentle now as a few moments ago. He holds the bottle to my mouth, filling it until the cool water drips out, but biding me not swallow just by the look he gives me. The pressure not to swallow grows uncomfortable, and I shift nervously, wondering what he's up to. When I'm not sure I can hold the water in my mouth any longer, he presses his to mine, then whispers, "open, pet, and let me drink."

Just joining our mouths so it's possible is an erotic joy; the act of pushing the water into his mouth with my tongue, and feeling his aggressively taking it makes me sweat. In spite of the dry spasms that wracked me earlier, my cock throbs harshly, reminding me that it doesn't believe my hungers have been satisfied. His fingers pinch my nipples fiercely, pulling hard on them, forcing a groan out me. Pleasure, or pain? A little of both, maybe. Some of the water spills from our mouths, and when he breaks the suction of our kiss I lap at his chin, then his neck, eagerly taking up the droplets, swallowing them back down. It's as if I'm swallowing him, in a way. Taking him within me, symbolically.

He catches my hands, pulling them down, and steps back from me. His chest heaves a bit, though he doesn't appear to be stressed. I can hardly breathe, for all the sensations running through me, but Sir is… calm. He looks focused, like he's concentrating, but even a glance at his groin doesn't reveal much. I envy him that, too. Here, now, in this place, I'm vulnerable… naked, in more ways than physical. I can't hide--anything. Not from him.

"Are you ready?"

His question is merely formality; at this point it wouldn't matter if I said yea or nay--unless I used my word. But it's part of the ritual, giving me a chance to admit it to him, to let him know--again--how much I want, and need, this. I nod, slowly, my pulse pounding inside my head.

"I am, Sir."

"Then we'll begin."

The table he leads me to is well-padded, and covered with a soft flannel sheet. Under that is a waterproof cover, meant to catch any number of liquids--and it's caught most of mine, at some time or another. It's wide, and long, and can hold me easily. There are attachments to each corner; at different times we've used leashes, soft scarves, chains, and leather restraints to bind me here. Next to the table is a whipping post, with metal rings set into it for either gripping, or binding. A series of metal rings is also set into the wall behind the table, with a cabinet further down to hold the implements of our play.

I don't look at the cabinet. I know by heart what's in there, and I know how each one feels, applied to different parts of my body.

"Strip for me, pet, and be quick about it."

One more layer of myself discarded; another layer discovered beneath. My hands are shaking a little as I reach to undo the leather trousers. They're hard to push off, between the tightness of them, and the stickiness of the sweat I've left behind. My cock has softened some, with the easing of a bit of tension, and I'm glad. It's hard to maintain that level of arousal for long lengths of time. I fold the pants and set them on the bench beside the table, then wait, in parade-rest stance, for Sir to let me know he's ready for the next step.

"Prepare the table, and yourself, pet. Use the leather tonight."

Leather. It holds me slaved all on its own, and he knows it, damn him. So much harder to fight the seductive pull of that; the texture alone, smooth, soft against my skin, is spell-binding. The soft *creak* when it's pulled on, or against; the pungent, musky scent of it, especially when combined with sweat--or other body fluids. It wraps me in a thick cloud of lust, in a haze of need, that reinforces my need for this submission, for this giving in, the surrender of my soul.

I don't know if that's what it is--but that's what it feels like.

There are two dozen long strips of leather lying coiled in the cabinet; I take out four and attach them to the metal rings at all four corners. Sir watches, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes dark and glittering. This is my job, set-up, preparation, then clean-up afterward. He watches, to be sure that the straps are fastened securely, or the cuffs tied on properly. Erotic pain is one thing. An injury due to carelessness on either of our parts is something else.

I lace the cuffs onto my wrists, then onto my ankles. They're set with small metal rings that will hold up to five hundred pounds of pressure. I can't move, when Sir ties me in with these.

He inspects the table, then the lacings on my cuffs, tightening the ones on my wrists. "Very good, pet. Now onto the table with you--on your back, and stretch out."

My heart is thudding so loudly I'm surprised he can't hear it, too. It sounds like war drums in my ears. Sweat is already gathering under the cuffs, soaking into the soft material. My cock jumps to attention when my butt hits the flannel, and Sir picks up one strip and trails it teasingly over the head, rubbing harder and rougher until several droplets of liquid well up. When he's soaked the leather in them, he brings it to his nose to sniff deeply, then to his tongue, to taste. After he's tasted, he presses the bit to my mouth, urging it against my lips until I open to run my tongue along the leather where his was.

Our mingled taste, and the scent of leather sends more shivers racing through me, and my nipples draw up hard and tight in response. He laughs quietly, a chuckle, and pinches one sharply.

"Eager little bitch, aren't you. Lay back, pet."

When I'm tied to his satisfaction, he rakes his fingernails lightly down my chest, tugging on the short hairs around my nipples, playing with the indent of my navel. I pull on the bindings, but he has me tightly. One more layer peeled back. Naked, bound, helpless. Vulnerable to his will, to his desires…to my need.

######

"How much tonight?" he asks, quietly. Sir hardly raises his voice; the quiet--and sometimes silence--is much more effective. "How much can you take tonight, pet?"

The candle is poised above me, above my right nipple. Already my skin is flushed from the droplets of hot wax that dot my throat and chest. I bite my lip and shake my head. "I don't know, Sir."

And I don't. I never do. I can take it until I can't any longer. Somehow, he always knows, just as I do, that I've reached my limits. Limits that have grown, have stretched, but still remain.

One droplet, hot and stinging, on my nipple. Another one. I arch, involuntarily, toward the pain, then away from it, wanting to embrace it, but not able yet. Not quite there. He is my guide for this journey; a journey into discovery of myself, my boundaries, my ability. He'll lead me where I always doubt I can go, but somehow always manage to reach--with his help.

"More, pet?" His face is totally open to me; one of the rare moments in our relationship, when we’re here; his eyes, when I chance to look, are hot, bright with desire, with pleasure.

I don't want more. I need more. I nod, whimpering once, then ask quietly. "More, Sir, please."

I need this; the pain, the desire, the pleasure of it all, and he willingly gives it to me.

One splatter on my side becomes a steady drip, a slow coat of shiny wax growing on my skin. It stings; the heat seems to seep into my bones, caressing me from inside out. I can feel myself hardening again, my cock taking an interest in the sensations ricocheting through my body.

Several droplets spatter onto the soft, sensitive skin of my abdomen, stretched tightly across my pelvic bone. He chuckles softly when I flinch, his fingers stroking over my suddenly ultra-sensitive skin. Another dip of the candle, and bits of hot wax fall on the mound my cock roots to. He moves to the foot of the table and caresses my balls, then pushes my swollen cock out of the way to bare my sac. More droplets falls, making me hiss, and shift uncomfortably. I can't move; I'm stretched out, bound tightly to the corners of the padded table.

He laughs, softly, and shakes the candle; more wax drips down, hitting the soft insides of my thighs, and my balls again. I wince, pulling against the bonds, trying to move, to protect myself.

"Be still, pet. You can take this; this is child's play." He presses a kiss to my still-throbbing flesh. I think my balls are on fire, but oh, the intensity of the sensations radiating out from them now makes it worthwhile. "Stay still now; you know what's coming."

"Yes, Sir." I can only whisper; I do know what's coming--I asked for it, earlier tonight, when we were planning our evening. My cock throbs eagerly; my body shudders and throbs with it. No matter how much I fear that first, initial bite of pain, I crave it, and the warmth that will move through me afterward, washing away all cares, all concerns--leaving me only this warm, quiet, safe place.

He watches me for a moment, prolonging it, drawing out the tension, then reaches for me. My cock, stiff and unyielding, standing straight in his hand. His fingers trace me, stroke me, drawing up over the crown to tug the skin down tightly, pulling the tiny opening at the tip even wider. I'm holding my breath now, agonized suspense screaming through me, the quiet in the room almost unbearable.

I almost cry in relief when the candle dips, when the first stinging, burning, gut-twisting drop falls onto that tender, ultra-sensitive area.

I scream then, hoarsely, my body jerking reflexively against the bonds holding me; once, twice, then a third drop that runs down the underside of my cock, following the large vein that pulses and throbs in time to the delicious, horrible, wonderful heat that's knifing through me.

His hands are strong, but gentle, stroking my arm, helping to hold me against the waves of pain those first moments. "Breathe, pet…roll with it. Let it wash through you."

Pleasure, and pain. So different, and so close together. One morphs into the other easily, without thought. I need them both, separately and together.

Another drop, applied again to the tip of my cock, the heat snaking its way into me, and through me. I grunt, tears filling my eyes, making them burn in time with my genitals.

"Such a good pet," His voice is right next to me, and I open eyes I don't remember closing, trying to remember to breathe through my nose. It's not unbearable pain, but it's all over now, making me work to chase it down. His tongue strokes over my right nipple, swollen and burning, and soothes it. Long, slow licks, teasing and calming the overexcited tissues, sending a different wave of heat through me. "Does it hurt, pet? Does it hurt so good, all the way through you?"

I moan a quiet agreement, then wriggle a little, arching my chest to try and get his mouth on me, groaning in disappointment when he moves away from me. I track where he's going as best I can. He's moved to stand in front of the cabinet, his face drawn in concentration, in contemplation. I can see the slight tent in his shorts, though its harder to tell with black leather. It excites him to give me this. He told me once that it's not the application of pain, per se, as much as seeing the transformation I go through. Hurting me, answering my needs, fills needs within him.

There was a time I didn't understand that. I couldn't understand how someone could hurt someone else that they professed to love--or why anyone would want to be hurt, on purpose. That was before I understood--before I experienced--the freedom that comes with it, with giving into it. Of letting go of everything, and trusting someone with the essence of what makes you, you. Of surrendering to it completely.

It transcends just hurting; it goes far beyond pain, or who's causing it. There's a beauty to pain that appeals to him, and to me...because it's very simple. Deceptively so, actually. I admire that... how it just is. How it takes over my entire body, steals my breath and thought away... and replaces them with pure sensation.

He's coming back to me now, several things in his hands. Clamps and chain, a flogger, a crop, and another flogger, this one made with soft strips of velvet. Nothing terribly overwhelming, but in his hands, they can coax the most exquisite, earth-shaking reactions from me.

"Need a drink, pet?" The water bottle is in his hand, rubbing against his chest. My mouth waters, thinking of tasting the droplets of water clinging to him now. I nod.

"Yes, Sir. Please."

He takes a long drink, then brings his mouth to mine, close but not quite touching. One stroke of his cool fingers against my lips, and I open obediently, letting the cool water from his mouth trickle down the back of my throat. His mouth presses on mine then, urging me silently to open wider for him. He's aggressive this time, sucking my tongue, stripping the remaining droplets of moisture from it, from me, and swallowing them back down again. I pull on my bonds with no effect, other than to make my fists clench in frustration. He laughs into my mouth, then steps back, watching me calmly. My chest is heaving; I want to touch him, to taste him, anything. Anything he'll give me, I'll take right now.

"I think you're ready for the next part, pet." His fingers tease lightly over my nipples, standing hard and swollen from the wax, and his earlier attentions. He flicks one finger against me harder, and smiles when my groan whispers around us. "So ready," his own whisper blends. "A sweet, hot little piece, just waiting…ready for my pleasure. Aren't you, pet." He cocks one eyebrow at me, watching me. When my response is slow in coming he jerks my nipple tightly, and twists, wringing another groan out of me. "Timeliness in response is appreciated, pet. You'd take care to remember that, no matter where you are inside yourself."

"I--yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." My nipple throbs deliciously, shards of heat clenching me in their fists. He twists the other, both of them being pulled and pinched now, sending rockets through me. They were tender to start with; now, when he releases me and I glance down, I can see them, hard and red, swollen and distended. Painful. I groan and lean into it, holding myself at the edge.

"Let go, pet. Feel it. Don't fear it--it's your friend, your lover."

"Hard…to do…Sir."

"I know. I'll help you. I always help you, don't I."

"Yes…"

The pinch when he puts the clamps on me sharpens the dull throb into something like being raked with broken glass. We have two different sets of clamps; one is like tweezers, and adjustable. The other--which I could see, if I would open my eyes--is four tiny claws on each one, that settle around the tissue they're attached to. When he tightens the pressure I let out the scream I can't hold any more, and arch, my cock burning hot between my legs, adding to the pleasurable agony. His fingers dance down my torso and stroke hotly over my cock, before stretching my foreskin over the swollen head. I shudder when I realize what he's going to do, and clench my eyes tighter against it, the fever pitch inside me increasing.

When the third clamp is attached to the tip of my penis, locking me inside my own foreskin, I roar, the shriek echoing around me. I can feel the spasms of my orgasm run through my legs, my arms, my stomach, swirling me into a pool of liquid heat that won't subside.

I gasp, panting hard, trying to go with it, to let it take me where it will. So much coming in all at once, but I want this…I asked for it, I need it…I welcome it. Nothing more in me, just the swelling sensations; pain becoming pleasure, setting up a throb all through me. It takes an effort to focus on anything outside of my body, and when I come back to myself, I'm surprised to find Sir has released my bonds.

His face is a little flushed now, and I can see beads of sweat dampening the hair that curls on his forehead. He reaches out and helps me sit up; my whole body is shaking, and it's difficult to coordinate my muscles. Tender hands stroke my hair back, then release the clasp, letting it settle about my shoulders. "Beautiful, beautiful pet. You suffer so exquisitely, it's a pleasure to give you this." His fingers stroke downward, over my nipples, tugging lightly on the chain between them, pulling another groan from me. The third clamp is attached to a chain also, and he strokes down it, worrying it lightly. I groan again, shuddering convulsively when my cock is pulled, the claws on the clamp biting into my skin. "Kiss me, pet. Show me how thankful you are for this."

I lean into him, nuzzling at his throat for a moment, nipping lightly at the prominent Adam's apple there before I move to his mouth. Such a beautiful mouth; it's made for kissing, for teasing, for devouring. I delve inside, tasting the sweet heat there, stroking my tongue all around. My body burns for him; not just for the release, but for the connection. I bite at his lips, moaning with a hunger that won't be satisfied truly until I'm screaming a different sort of release for him. He breaks the kiss, panting against my mouth, letting me taste the scent of his breath as he pulls his control back around himself.

"So hot, so wanton. If I made you choose, pet, which would you take: the kiss of the lash, or the feel of my cock?"

Something akin to panic flows over me, as shocking as a dousing of ice water onto sun-warmed skin. Do I have to choose? Can't I have both? Why must it be only one?

It's in instances like that, that I realize I'm truly into this. As much as I want his cock, I need the other. I can say it now, no hesitation; it's thrumming through me with a life all it's own, pricking me with needles and pinchers until I'm nearly senseless with the desire.

"It doesn't need to be only one, my pet." His fingers stroke through my hair, soothing me, settling me. "I simply wished to see if you could choose; I can see on your face that you have." He kisses me once more, biting hard at my lips, then on my neck, licking at the small hurt. "Lay back for a moment, pet, and stroke yourself. Make your pretty cock all rosy for me again."

I hesitate, my hand hovering over myself. "Sir--"

"I'm not going to repeat myself, Duncan."

The shiver that slides through me with that tone is worthy of an earthquake.

He moves away again, leaving me to whimper as I touch, then stroke my cock. It hurts…god, it hurts so bad. Each tug of the foreskin pulls the clamp down into my skin, biting me anew with sharp teeth. Each stroke up sends fresh waves of heat throbbing through me in time with my heartbeat, easing the pain, flirting with it.

He's back before I've done a dozen strokes, and in spite of the pain in them, I whimper pitifully when he stills my hand. I'm hard and throbbing again; I never really got soft. My balls feel like they're on fire with my need to spend, but I won't until he allows it. My gift to him, my thanks for leading me here.

"Spread your legs, pet. Let me see you." I flush at the lechery in his voice; I get so inside myself sometimes that I forget where his pleasure might come from--and doubtless some of it comes from seeing me open, flushed and panting, ready for him. One long finger strokes over me, down my cock, around my seething sac, to my perineum. "Beautiful. Smooth, warm, I can feel your pulse here, pet. How would you like a ring? Something for me to play with when I pleasure us…" His voice trails off as he pinches the tender skin there, his fingernails biting into me. I jerk, groaning when my movement jars my clamps.

"I don't--" I stop, and clear my throat, half-afraid he means it, half-afraid he doesn't. "I don't know, Sir. Would…how…"

"Not to worry for now, pet. We can play with it, sometime…I can put a needle there, let you feel the bite, see how you like it."

I close my eyes against the visions he's conjuring up, not sure if the emotions shaking me are desire, or revulsion.

Something cool and slick touches me, and I startle, groaning when the tight ring of muscles is dilated open. "Sir--"

"Just preparation, pet. When you've had your pleasure, I want mine--and I'll want it right away. Relax now, don't tighten up." It's a large dildo he has; fully bigger than himself, with knobby bumps on it. I'm stretched wide, trying to take it, and whimper again when he pulls it out, then pushes the head in again.

The scent of cinnamon fills the air suddenly, and I breathe in deeply, aware of a warm tingling beginning in my ass, and spreading upward. He pushes the dildo in deeper, then out, the coolness giving way to a surge of heat that leaves me sweating and gasping for breath. Hot, so hot…submerged in it, surrounded by it, drowning in it. His hand strokes hard down my cock, caressing me and sending bits of sensation screaming through my nerve endings at the same time he buries the dildo deep inside me. I jerk hard, and groan, jerking again as another volley of dry orgasmic shudders run through me, tearing groan after groan from me.

"Very nice, pet. You should see yourself like this, sometime. Your entire body flushes, and trembles. You're quite a sight." He kisses me briefly, then takes my arms. "Sit up now. We're nearly there, but not yet done."

It's an effort this time; I ache everywhere. And yet, as cloudy as I feel from those aches and throbs, my mind is amazingly clear, sharper than usual. Free.

######

I have to hold onto the table for balance when I first stand up; the room sways around me before settling back down. Such a rush of endorphins, passing through my system. I feel like I could conquer the world, like I would do anything for him right now. I would. I have.

I will.

The heat from his body makes my back sweat when he leans in close. He nuzzles at my hair and my neck as he ties me to the highest set of rings set into the wall. They're set above my head, forcing me up onto my toes, and far enough apart that I can feel the muscles in my back and shoulders burn from the stretch. One hard kiss on my mouth, and he's gone, moving behind me to look, to touch, to make me wait until the moment stretches and I can't stand the tension any longer.

How long until I break, this time?

I can hear him picking up each implement in turn, inspecting it, touching it--making it a part of himself. I know how each one feels on its own--I've touched them, held them, cleaned them. I know how he makes them feel, striking me. A moment of terror clutches my stomach, then its gone, pushed away by the feel of his lips on my neck, of his fingers in my hair.

"Be still, pet. Tell me again… tell yourself again."

I swallow thickly; my throat feels too small, too tight for words, but they're there, begging for escape. Begging like I'll do, soon.

"I need this, Sir. Please…whip me."

"Tell me what you want, pet." Softness touches me; it's the velvet flogger he found--somewhere. A joke, once, now it's his favorite 'warm-up' toy. Sensation without heat, to get me ready.

"I want--" I stop and clear my throat again. "I want to…feel, Sir. I want…to scream."

"And you shall." The first soft lash falls, making me flinch, then squirm in relief. Another, across my shoulders, a gentle, soft caress. His voice comes again, as thick as honey, as warm as the sun. "What else, pet?" A lash to my hip.

"I--to beg, Sir."

"Then do it. Beg prettily, Duncan."

Three soft caresses on my back, two up high, one low. My breath catches in my throat, stuck behind a sob. "P--please, Sir…give me…give it to me…I need it…so bad."

The crack of leather catches me completely off guard; the stroke across my shoulder blade moreso. I groan as a new surge of pain cuts through me, warming me, filling me.

"Yes…you do, don't you." His voice is a quiet murmur, barely audible over the snap of the leather. It's hard to predict where each blow will land, and he moves around my back randomly. On my shoulders, spears of pain reeling through me. Over my ribs, in the back, biting deeply. My tailbone, my hips, one stripe hard across my ass, catching the tender flesh of my crack. More over my ass, warming it, forcing more sobs from me.

He's panting when he stops, pulling back to survey me. The words have spilled from lips easily, begging for more, for surcease, to be fucked, to come, for anything he wants from me. My throat feels tight, and I'm aware that more time has passed than I remember, and that my back is literally on fire. His fingers trace the welts I can feel, stroking each one lightly, then harder, rubbing to spread the heat around, to make it linger. I cough, pulling in a gasp of air, leaning into the pain, embracing it. Here is where I want to be. Where I've longed to be. Where I need to be. Here, as his, only his.

"More?" The softest of whispers in my ear.

I nod, groaning when the movement sets off alarms in my nerves and muscles. "More, Sir…please. Please, don't stop…"

"Very well." A dull thud when he sets the flogger down, a sharp, crisp *snap* when he cracks the crop. I wince, my breath catching, holding. When? How long? Where?

The first stripe is over my ass, sending me high onto my toes, forcing me to lean into the wall. The next falls onto my back, and I taste blood when I bite too hard on my lip. Over and over, in a random, circling pattern, increasing slowly in strength and number. My body is vibrating with tension, with pain, and when he flicks the crop against me, catching my cleft I jerk hard, screaming as the pain radiates, then spreads. Everywhere, it's everywhere; I can't track it any longer, can only go with it, each wave pushing me higher, further, sending me deeper into a place I could never reach on my own. Two strokes onto the skin of my thighs; another on my back. The tickle of sweat--blood?--dripping pulls me back just in time for the last one that snakes along the crack of my ass, and up my back, sending me screaming into agony and ecstasy.

He waits a moment, giving me a chance to start breathing again, for the by-now-silent screaming to stop. I don't know when it went from sound to silent, or why it was that particular one; it varies each time, and I've never figured out the trigger. I'm panting, my cock so hard I hurt with a wholly different pain than the fire raging across my back, shoulders and ass.

My fingers feel a little numb when he unties the leather, and the bite of easing my shoulders down, of returning circulation makes me groan. His fingers are stroking over me, touching my cock, my balls, and they feel cool compared to the heat of my shaft. He strokes up me, and around my waist, touching me everywhere, gently. Behind me I hear the ragged sound of a zipper, then his lips touch my ear.

"You are mine, Duncan MacLeod… my pet, and only mine." He slips his hands to my hips, canting them upward a little, forcing me to change position to accommodate him. The dildo slips from my body with a twist of his hand, pulling a whimper from me. "Mine to fill…mine to fuck… mine to hurt… mine to love."

"Yes…yours…only yours, Sir…"

I can feel his thrust home from my head to my toes, and everywhere in between. Hot, hard flesh filling me, owning me, making the connection between us complete.

He uses me hard, fast, the heat of our bodies raising more sweat between us. His hand is rough between my legs, stroking and fondling, pulling groans and whimpers out of me as he pulls and tugs on my balls, my cock, the clamps attached to me. I buck back against him, begging with my body, with the wordless cries he's wringing from me. More, harder, faster, rougher…make it hurt, make it burn, make me feel!

Close…we're so close; I can feel the tremors running through him as he slams into me; I can feel my own body responding, moving toward that last burst he'll get from me. One hand buries itself in my hair, pulling my head back for him to sink his teeth into my neck; the other reaches to undo the cockring, to jerk the clamp from me. His thumb smears my wetness all around my crown, and I can hear my groans, my cries, my grunts as the pain pushes the pleasure out, then back, then melds completely, neither distinguishable from the other.

"Come for me, pet… give me my gift…"

He strokes my throbbing penis once more, and bites me again, his lips moving from my neck to my mouth as I scream one last time, my juices spurting over his fingers. He pushes me hard against the wall, pumping fast, then holding, his own cry of completion swallowed by our kiss.

######

When I'm aware of time, of myself, of him again, we're on our knees, on the floor, our bodies still joined. He tips my head back again, kissing me roughly at first, then more gently, tenderly. He swallows my grunt of pain when his fingers release my nipples from their prison, petting and stroking them gently as my eyes water.

"You did well, pet; I'm so very proud of you…" His voice is low, almost a whisper, and it takes me a minute to realize he's speaking in French, not English. Or is he? I feel…removed from myself; totally unaware of what is reality, and what is now. "How do you feel, ma cher?"

"I don't know, Sir." My throat hurts from screaming, and the words come out thickly, but the smile that follows them earns me one from him. He separates us, ignoring my whimper, then offers a hand to me to help me stand.

My legs are like water, and I lean against him for long minutes, waiting for the trembling to ease enough to let me move. His hands stroke my hair; his lips stroke my face.

In a few minutes, when I've recovered enough, I'll pick up all the toys used, and clean them off, then put them away. The room will be picked up, though I'll clean it thoroughly tomorrow, and we'll go to bed.

Tomorrow, we'll talk about tonight, and what happened, and sort out all the feelings I'll have. Tomorrow, I'll know how I feel, what I need to talk about, what to do about other things.

Tomorrow.

For tonight, we'll lay together in bed, wrapped around each other, and just…be.

~fin~

 


End file.
